


Illustrated by James Church

by ESawyer



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Background McPriceley, Character Study, Child Abuse, James is an artist, Light Angst, M/M, We've all listened to his verse in Turn It Off you know whats coming, also Nabulungi is the Best person to exist, because that is a headcanon I will live and die by, domestic abuse, which is actually canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ESawyer/pseuds/ESawyer
Summary: The first time James Church heard that sound, he was nine years old.
Relationships: Elder Church/Elder Thomas (Book of Mormon Musical), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	Illustrated by James Church

**Author's Note:**

> TW/ Abuse, mentions of cancer.

The first time James Church heard that sound, he was nine years old. 

He was sitting in his bedroom, tongue between his teeth as he scribbled in a drawing pad that his Grandma had bought for him. It was one of those cheap ones with flimsy, transparent pages that his equally cheap markers always bled through, but it was still his most treasured possession. That, and the packet of markers that he mom had surprised him with one morning. They came everywhere with him, tucked away in his little backpack that also contained: Benji the Bee, a packet (or three) of raisins for when he got hungry (and because his mom was ever so slightly concerned with the speed at which he was growing), and a Book of Mormon for no other reason that he was pretty sure he was always meant to carry one around. 

His backpack was lying at the foot of his car-shaped bed, his last packet of raisins peeking out of the top in a way that suggested he _absolutely_ had to eat them, because they wouldn’t have been looking at him if not. 

As he stretched off his bed to grab the raisins, his hands scrabbling against his carpet, he heard it. He frowned and sat up, turning his head towards his bedroom door. Then it happened again, the sound echoing throughout the house. 

Growing confused, James slipped off his bed and (raisins in hand), shuffled out of his bedroom and down the stairs. He peeked around the doorframe of the living room, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim lighting. 

What he saw confused him. His mom was cowering in the corner of the room, hands raised above her face as his dad gripped onto her wrist with one hand, and raised the other above his head. 

“Mommy?” James called out, “What - What-” 

They both leapt apart at once, his dad turning his back on him and his mom hurrying over to him. 

“Jamie, darling, go back upstairs,” she whispered, brushing the hair out of his face, “We have Church early tomorrow,” 

“But - But-” 

“Come on,” she whispered, putting her arm around his shoulders and leading him back upstairs, “Have you drawn a picture for tomorrow? Like the Bishop asked?” 

James nodded, “Yeah. Of Moroni. I didn’t forget his trumpet this time,” 

“Good boy,” she said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head when they got to his room, “Go to sleep now, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you,” 

James wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t think he liked his dad anymore. 

* * *

When he was 16 years old, James decided he could fight back. 

The gentle scratching of his pencil against his sketchbook lulled him into a rare state of calm as he sat hunched over his desk, chewing on raisins with Benji the Bee acting as a cushion for his lower back because his mom was always telling him that all the hours he spent drawing would do wonders for his art school prospects, but not his aches and pains. He pushed back from his desk and held the sketchbook away from him, eyes narrowed and head tilted to the side. It looked wrong, somehow. 

With a frustrated groan, he poured more raisins into his mouth and scooted back towards his desk. It was a stupid drawing of the boy who sat next to him in Chemistry and smiled at him a lot and texted him late into the night. James was sure that the way his heart fluttered when his phone lit up with a message off him meant _something,_ but he never let himself think about it. He was also sure that the fact he was drawing him meant something too, and he had already thought too deeply about what that meant. 

His relative calm was shattered, as it always was, by _that_ sound echoing through the house. He froze, the grip on his pencil becoming tighter as it happened again. 

Something snapped in him. Whatever had been holding him together all these years had finally been pulled too taut and gave way. His mind blank, James stood up from his desk and rushed downstairs, walking in on the scene he knew all too well; his mother shrinking away from his fathers raised hand. 

He lurched forward, hands scrabbling at the back of his fathers t-shirt as he pulled him back. They crashed against the opposite wall, and James thought that he actually won until his father spun around and there was a fist headed straight for his face. 

The drawing ended up screwed up in the bin beneath his desk, the blood ruined it. 

* * *

James Church arrived in Uganda two weeks after his 20th birthday with a busted lip and a black eye. No one questioned his appearance, so he didn’t say anything. Sometimes he would catch his mission companion shooting him worried looks, but he ignored him for the most part. 

When they weren’t proselytising to people who could not care less about the Book of Mormon, James sought the shade underneath a large tree by the lake, eating his raisins and sketching whatever stood out to him. Sometimes it was the hut, sometimes it was the sky, sometimes it was his mom, happy and smiling and free from his dad. He never liked those drawings, though. It didn’t look like her. 

“Why are you always on your own? Do you not have friends?” 

James tore his eyes from the drawing of his mom, squinting in the sunlight. One of the girls from the village was staring down at him, and it took him a minute to realise that she was called Nabulungi. At least, he was pretty sure that was what she was called. 

“Oh. Um, no,” he said. 

“Not even the other white boys?” 

“Not really,” he said, “I’m not very good at...talking,” 

She giggled as though he had just said something funny and sat down next to him, stretching her legs out and peering down at his sketchbook. 

“You are a very good artist!” she exclaimed, “Where did you learn how to do that?” 

James frowned, looking between her and the sketchbook and being quite confused as to what was happening. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a conversation this long with someone that wasn’t about God. 

“Oh. I don’t know. I just...draw,” he said, looking down at the sketch. 

“Who is that? She is beautiful,” 

“My mom,” he said quietly, “She doesn’t usually smile that much,” 

Nabulungi shrugged her shoulders, “I think it is a very good drawing. What else do you draw?” 

For the first time in his life, James flipped to the front of his sketchbook and showed her everything he had drawn. He even hesitantly told her about the boy that he had _kissed_ before he left America as he showed her the rushed sketch he had done of him. At first she said nothing, and he braced for homophobic abuse before relaxing as she lamented the fact that the last boy she had kissed hadn’t been _that_ attractive and she had only really kissed him because she felt sorry for him. 

“He probably only kissed me because he felt sorry for me,” James muttered, “I think I have a big nose. I was worried I was going to poke his eye with it,” 

Nabulungi frowned at him, “If your nose is near his eye, then I think you are doing it wrong,”

“I probably was doing it wrong. I do most things wrong,” 

“Do you ever say anything nice about yourself?” 

“Uh...no. I don’t think so,” 

“Elder Church!” she exclaimed, “You should!” 

He blinked at her, “You don’t - You don’t need to call me that. I don’t really like being called that. Makes me feel weird,” 

“What would you like to call me instead?” 

“Just...Jamie. Yeah. Jamie is fine,” 

She grinned at him, “Okay, Jamie. You can call me Naba if you want,” 

That evening, his mom called. He sat on the floor of Elder McKinley’s office, knees drawn to his chest and phone held tight to his ear like it might make him feel closer to her. She sounded as tired and defeated as she always did, and didn’t mention James’ dad once, because that always upset them both. Instead she talked about the Church that she still pretended to believe in, and how one of his cousins was pregnant _again_ and how another one had just gotten engaged and how she was looking forward to the wedding, because it was one of his rich cousins so the wedding would be fancy. 

“How’s Africa, dear? You’re wearing sunscreen, aren’t you?” 

James looked down at his arms that seemed to be permanently red, “Yeah, but I don’t think it works,” 

“At least you’ll be tanned when you get back. I feel like you never get enough sun. Always locked away in your room drawing,” 

“Yeah, well...what else is there to do?” 

She tutted down the phone, and James could so clearly see her rolling her eyes in the way she always did when he tried to argue that spending his time doing anything other than drawing was a big waste. 

“What about the other boys? Is your mission companion nice?” 

“Yeah.” he said, “He’s nice. He...He talks a lot. Like, _a lot._ I think he prefers to spend time with another one of the Elders though,” 

“Have you made any friends, Jamie?” she asked with a sigh.

James frowned down at his wrist on which a flower chain sat. Nabulungi had made it for him and insisted that he wear it, or else all her work would have been for nothing. 

“I...I think I accidentally made a friend today. With one of the girls who lives in the village,” 

She sighed again, though it felt like more of a sigh of relief that was her way of saying ‘I’m glad you’re not a loner anymore,’. 

* * *

The arrival of Elder Price and Elder Cunningham came with a new religion, and James wasn’t entirely sure how. He also wasn’t entirely sure what he was preaching. Cunningham was still writing the book, so all James had to go off was a few garbled notes that he had managed to scribble down during a nonsensical sermon led by their ‘Prophet’. 

Nabulungi was much better at understanding it than he was, and was extremely patient as she described exactly why frogs were so important to Arnoldism whilst they sat under their tree. The tree was their meeting place, they would sit for hours whilst James drew and Nabulungi made flower crowns that would always end up sat on top of his head. 

"Are you more interested in Arnoldism or just...Arnold?” James asked, looking down at his sketchbook. At some point, he had started drawing a frog and didn’t even realise. 

“I can be interested in two things at once, Jamie,” she said impatiently, pouring some raisins onto her hand, “Are _you_ interested in something other than your drawing? Or _someone_?"

He shook his head, turning back to his frog, “No. Not really. Like I said, big nose,” 

She tutted and punched him in the arm, “You do not have a big nose! What about Elder Price? He is attractive,” 

James scrunched his nose up, “No. He’s loud. And I think he has a God complex,” 

“Hmm...Elder McKinley?” 

“No. Also loud and maybe has a crush on Elder Price? Or maybe he wants to kill him. I can never tell by the way he looks at him,” James said, tilting his head to the side as he stared down at his sketch. Even he could admit that, for once, it looked quite good, “I’m more focused on...anything but a boyfriend,” 

She tutted again and slumped against him, pouring raisins onto his hand when he held it up to her, “What about Elder Davies?” 

“Currently making out with Elder Schrader behind the shed. Don’t tell anyone,” 

“What about that little one? The one that is always rolling his eyes at Elder McKinley?” 

James frowned down at her, “Elder Thomas? What about him?” 

“Whenever he is not rolling his eyes at Elder McKinley, he is staring at you,” 

“Why are you so concerned about my love life?” he asked. 

“Because _you_ don’t care about it enough,” she muttered angrily, beginning to weave more flowers together, “One of us has to care,” 

James rolled his eyes and leant closer to his sketchbook. Nabulungi didn’t need to know that whenever Elder McKinley moved Elder Thomas’ food to the very top shelf of the kitchen when he was annoyed at him, he was always the one to move it back down. 

* * *

“ _Jamieee,_ I have a job for you!” 

Uninvited, Nabulungi burst into his bedroom with Arnold following behind. James jumped, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“ _Knock!”_ he exclaimed, scrambling to grab a t-shirt off his bed and yank it over his head. 

“We didn’t see anything like - _you know_ ,” Arnold said, gesturing to his crotch and James wasn’t entirely sure how Elder Price had never tried to kill him. He probably had. 

Nabulungi rolled her eyes and bound over to James, gripping onto his arm and jumping up and down, “I have a job for you! I have a job for you! I have a job for you!” 

“You know I already have a job, right?” he said, “like that’s why I’m here,” 

“Yes, but you hate it,” she said, “ _So,_ why don’t you illustrate the Book of Arnold? We have written a list of all the things that we want illustrated!”

Before he could reply, she had shoved a crumpled up list into his hands and Arnold began talking about how he would like an illustrated front cover too, but he could draw whatever he wanted for that because he had officially run out of ideas. 

“We can’t pay you in money but we can pay you in raisins,” he said, holding up a packet and shaking them at him, “Elder Thomas bought loads when he went to Kampala with McKinley,” 

James' worst trait was being unable to say no to things when raisins were involved. 

* * *

For as long as he could remember, James had always wanted to be an artist. He would look through books his mom bought him not for the story, but for the pictures. He’d draw his own versions of the pictures and paste them onto the pages, and scribble _illustrated by James Church_ onto the front of it. His mom had called him sweet for it, his dad had called him a fairy for it. 

He had just never thought that the first book he ever illustrated would include a man with a clitoris for a nose. He didn’t even _know_ what a clitoris looked like. He was a gay ex- Mormon virgin, why on earth would he know what one looked like? When he had awkwardly explained this to Elder McKinley after he’d asked him how his illustration was going, he sent Elder Price to Kampala to buy him a book on biology. 

Annoyingly, it was one of the best things he had ever drawn, he just wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to explain it to his mom when she asked him how things were going. He never did have to struggle through an explanation of why he had spent the majority of his day trying to work out how to make a clitoris into a nose. His mom had been telling him about her day when he heard _that_ sound, and the line went dead. 

“M-Mom?” he whispered down the phone like she could hear him, “No, no, no, _no_ ,” 

He leapt to his feet and ran from McKinley’s office, rushing upstairs and banging on his bedroom door. Without waiting to be told he could come in, James burst through the door, not even paying attention to the fact that Elder Price’s shirt was hanging over his shoulders or that McKinley’s belt was undone.

“E-Elder Church!” McKinley exclaimed, his face red, “Uh are you - are you, um - Elder Price and I were - we were...um-” 

“Studying scripture,” Price said quickly, “We were - yup. We were doing that,” 

James stared between them, the way that Price was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and McKinley dropping a pillow onto his lap not at all striking him as suspicious. 

“I don’t care,” he said, “Can I have another call home?” 

“When?” Elder McKinley asked. 

“Like...now?” 

McKinley’s face fell, “Now? What on Earth do you need to call home for again? I’m sorry Elder, no. It’s a pay phone, we don’t have the money. The Church wouldn't give us a proper phone, you know this," 

“ _Please,”_ James whispered, “I - I really need to. I need to call my Aunt, _please_ ,” 

“You can send her a letter,” 

“No! I need to call her now!” James yelled, taking himself by surprise, “I don’t have the time to send her a letter!” 

“I’m sorry,” McKinley said, “We don’t have the money. I don’t know what you want me to do,” 

Price cleared his throat, “Also can you like...leave us alone? We’re um - _studying_ ,” 

With a groan, James turned on his heel and marched back down to McKinley’s office. He considered trying to work out how to break into the money box before someone cleared their throat behind him. He jumped and turned around, Elder Thomas stood in the doorway, smiling awkwardly at him. 

James stared at him, quite unsure as to why he was stood there like he was lost. 

“I heard you yelling,” Elder Thomas said, “I wasn’t - I wasn’t eavesdropping, you were just...loud,” 

“Okay. And?” James asked impatiently. 

“Uh...you can - you can take my call home if you want,” he said, “I don’t mind. They’re too depressing for me sometimes. All my mom and dad ever want to do is talk about my sister and I don’t want to spend three hours talking about my dead sister, you know?” he grimaced slightly, “Sorry. I’m oversharing. I’ll...stop that,” 

James nodded silently, because he wasn’t sure how he was meant to respond to that. Elder Thomas smiled at him again and brushed passed him, pulling the money box out of McKinley’s drawer and opening it for him. 

“The code is his birthday,” he said, handing him the money, “He thinks I don’t know it. Not that I steal money,” he added hastily, “I just got bored one day and wanted to know how many things in here I could unlock,” 

“Oh,” James said, desperately trying to work out the nicest way to tell him to fuck off without telling him to fuck off, “Right,” 

“It was everything. I could unlock...everything,” he said, “cause...everything is his birthday. I should probably talk to him about that. Anyway, I’ll let you call your mom or whoever,” 

“Thank-you, Elder Thomas,” 

“Chris is fine,” he said flippantly, “I don’t really think we have the right to call ourselves Elder anymore,” 

“Uh...Jamie. You can - You can call me Jamie,” 

Chris flashed him a grin as he left the room, “‘Kay. See ya later, Jamie. Sorry about the dead sister stuff,” he paused on the way out of the door, “You look stressed. Everything okay at home?” 

James nodded, and muttered a lie about how he wasn’t sure his dad was going to remember his moms birthday because he was _so forgetful_ like that. He hoped that Chris wasn’t as good at knowing when people were lying as he was as oversharing. 

* * *

“Have you heard from your Aunt?” Nabulungi asked quietly. 

James nodded, slumping down the tree to rest his head on Nabulungi’s shoulder. He watched as she expertly weaved the flowers together, quietly humming underneath her breath as she did so. A new copy of The Book of Arnold sat on his lap, but the embossed _illustrated by James Church_ along the bottom didn’t bring him the joy that he thought it would. 

“She said that moms staying with her now. Dad isn’t allowed near her,” 

“That is good, no?” 

“It is,” James mumbled, “I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell someone though,” 

“It is not your fault, Jamie,” she said firmly, “It is your fathers fault,” 

“I guess...” he said quietly, tutting when she dropped the flower crown on his head, “I sent her a copy of the Book to try and cheer her up. I thought she might like that it’s been illustrated by me...” 

“I do not see why she wouldn’t,” Nabulungi said. 

James pursed his lips, deciding not to explain that just because clitoris noses and magical AIDs frogs were normal to them, didn’t mean it was normal to the rest of the world. He dropped the Book to the floor and picked up his sketchpad, his tongue between his teeth as began to sketch out Nabulungi’s hands as she weaved yet another flower crown that would most likely end up on his head. 

The sound of his pencil scratching against the paper had gently pulled him into a daze that he was dragged out of by Nabulungi gasping and elbowing him in the side. 

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, “What was that for?” 

She broke out in a fit of giggles, “Elder Thomas,”

“Huh? Oh - hi,” 

Heat rose in his cheeks as he looked up to see Chris standing in front of him, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. 

“Hi. Uh, I - I brought you some raisins,” he said, holding a bowl out to him, “I thought you’d...I thought you’d like some,” 

James silently took the raisins off him, only remembering to speak when Nabulungi elbowed him. 

“Oh. Thank-you,” 

Chris smiled at him, “That drawing is good,” 

“Oh. Thank-you,” 

“Right,” Chris said quietly, “Well I’m just gonna go and - go and do some work so...see ya,” 

It was only when he had walked away and Nabulungi had burst into laughter that James realised he had accidentally shut down flirting that he didn’t think he was at all opposed to. 

* * *

According to his mother and Nabulungi, he had a terrible habit of shutting the world out. Personally, he thought that it was his superpower. Sometimes he didn’t want to acknowledge the world. The world was often loud and uninviting, but he could tune it out with the scratch of his pencil and the sounds of the village wafting through his bedroom window.

Nabulungi had gone to Kampala for the weekend (with a promise to buy him a new sketchbook), leaving him with little to do. And with no empty pages in his sketchbook, he had resorted to sketching in his old Book of Mormon. His mind wandered as he sketched out a rough drawing of Moroni over a passage, he wasn’t sure how he felt about organised religion anymore, but he knew that he wasn’t quite ready to let go of Heavenly Father. If being abused for most of his life didn’t knock the faith out of him, he wasn’t sure anything would. 

Propping Benji the Bee behind against the headboard of his bed to somewhat protect his neck, James held the Book away from him, staring at Moroni and trying to work out why it looked wrong. 

“You forgot his trumpet,” 

James jumped, Benji the Bee slipping out from behind his neck as he turned to look at the door. Chris waved at him, and James couldn’t help but wonder if the way he always seemed to be hovering in his peripheral meant something. 

“Moroni’s trumpet, I mean,” Chris said, pointing at the Book, “He always has a trumpet,” 

“Oh. Yeah,” James said, turning to look down at the page, “I always forget,” 

“You draw him a lot?” Chris asked, still hovering by the door. 

“No. It’s just not the first time I’ve forgotten it,” James said, before realising he should probably invite him in, “Come and sit, if you want,” 

Chris did, and James suddenly realised the implication of inviting another boy into his room when they were alone. Cheeks burning at the very _thought_ of something happening, he leant over the side of his bed and picked Benji back up until he realised his mistake in doing that because Chris was sat right across from him. 

“He’s cute,” 

James blinked at Chris, unable to work out if he was making fun of him or not. 

“He’s called Benji,” he said, sliding him behind his neck again, “He’s comfy,” 

Chris nodded, eyes skirting around the room. James knew that he wasn’t doing much to help the conversation along, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he was meant to be saying. The last time he had been alone with a boy, there had been a lot less talking and a lot more kissing but James didn’t want to throw himself at him. Not that he _hated_ the thought of kissing him, he just wasn’t sure Chris would want that. 

Instead, he picked up his raisins and held them out to him. 

“Take some,” 

“Oh, no thank-you,” Chris said hurriedly, “I’m allergic,” 

“Allergic?” James repeated. 

“Yeah. It’s actually a very rare allergy. Which is funny, because I have a very rare allergy and my sister had a very rare bone cancer,” 

James opened his mouth and then closed it again. Chris often said things like that around the dinner table, and there would be a lull in conversation until someone - usually Elder McKinley - picked the conversation back up. 

“Sorry!” Chris exclaimed, “Sorry. I’m really bad with oversharing. It’s a coping mechanism, I think,” 

“It’s - It’s okay,” James said quickly, “I have the opposite coping mechanism where I don’t ever talk about myself,” 

Chris giggled, the sound doing a funny thing to James’ chest and he wasn’t entirely sure what, but he was quite sure that he wanted it to happen again. 

“Connor said I’m allowed to tell _him_ that sometimes I had to bathe my dying sister, but I’m not allowed to tell other people,” he said. He paused and then frowned, “Fuck. Did it again. Sorry,” 

“It’s fine. I - I never really speak, so...” 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Chris said, “I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you speak,” 

“Yeah, well, I never - I never really have much to say...” James said, “I’m boring,” 

“You can draw,” Chris pointed out, “You must have something to say about that,” 

Turns out, James _did_ have something to say about his drawings. He dragged his sketchbook out from underneath his bed and showed Chris everything. Explaining all the sketches he did like, and all the ones that were bad enough to damn him to Hell. Chris listened intently, nodding along and pointing out all the drawings that he liked. He pointed out most of them, and James thought that he was only doing it to be nice but he appreciated it all the same. 

His explanation of exactly why a drawing he had done of Nabulungi was much better than usual died on his lips when he felt a hand on his cheek. He looked up from the page, Chris’ nose was inches away from his and he was suddenly terrified of his nose getting in the way. 

“Can I kiss you?” Chris asked, leaning forward. 

“Uh, n-no!” James exclaimed, jerking away from him. 

Chris’ face fell and he sat up, clapping a hand over his mouth, “I am _so_ sorry. I’ve read the signals wrong. I thought - I thought you were gay. I’m so sorry,” 

“N-No!” James said, “No, I mean you - you _can_ kiss me but you...you shouldn’t,” 

“Uh-” 

“I’ve eaten so many raisins today,” he said in a strained whisper, “I think I’d kill you,” 

“Can we schedule this kiss for like...tomorrow, then?” Chris asked, “cause I like you, but not enough to have an allergic reaction,” 

James nodded, almost worried that he liked Chris enough to give up raisins.

**Author's Note:**

> I love James Church more than any future children I might have
> 
> (also happy new year!!!)


End file.
